Is this stuff air that permits you to suffocate still, almost audibly at times, it's possible, a kind of air. What exactly is going on, exactly, ah old xanthic laugh, no, farewell mirth, good riddance, it was never droll.Samuel Beckett, "Texts for Nothing," Stories and Texts for Nothing, 1950-1952

I'd seen it, this time, from the end of my row, xanthic, luminous. I stood above it, my hands on my hips like an outraged housewife confronted with an unexpected mess.Erica Wagner, Gravity, 1997